


Patchwork

by rheotastic



Category: Stella Glow
Genre: Gen, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse (vaguely), Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 00:05:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17355188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rheotastic/pseuds/rheotastic
Summary: The Harbingers must show discretion to when and where they strike.





	Patchwork

**Author's Note:**

> I WUV U ROBIN

Winter nights were always difficult; supplies were cut down, snow impeded troop movement, not to mention how bitter the cold was—but they were the best time to strike. People went to sleep earlier as the days got shorter and less hospitable, sending the human world into its own state of hibernation. It was so easy to push that just a bit further, into the eternal. The Witch of Destruction carried onward, shadowed into the endless winter gloom.

Behind her though, trailed two decidedly more colorful underlings; a redheaded boy, and a young girl in a pink coat. They wandered after their commander like hunting dogs, boy following Witch, girl following  boy.

Winter is a wonderfully silent thing, and the unit blended right into it; they didn’t make a single sound as they skulked towards their prey. They were united as one hunter, ready to fall upon the village ahead and leave as quietly and immaculately as they came.

When they neared, soldiers froze in place as the Witch stalked towards the perimeter, staking out the entries and defenses. Even then, though, they could sense an unusual...energy, a vitality in the air. Something _very_ uncommon in their marks. 

The air was still. Ranks remained just as so, unyielding in formation. Except, of course, those two little oddities. The girl was fidgeting, as children do, and the boy was attempting to keep her in line. The Witch was usually back quick enough to settle the girl, but she was absent for longer than usual now. That, combined with the unusual feeling, threatened to sink in as a wave of anxiety. Soldiers are soldiers, though; trained to be immune to such things, as tools should be. The same cannot be said for children. 

The girl took off in the direction the Witch had left like a startled cat. The boy started to give chase, but his own curiosity got the better of him; he caught up, then led her along on his own route. It better suited both of them that way anyway. Though children, they were far from wayward; they silently glided along in the darkness, as fluidly as they'd been trained to. There were words on their lips, but like good little soldiers, they gave no voice to them. 

As such loyal thralls often do, they found their mistress without any trouble. She was leaning over an isolated balustrade in the corner of the village, suspended in the steam of her breath. The Witch barely heard her vassals coming;though she could hardly be the Witch of Destruction if she hadn't.

She wheeled around on them, unable to muster anger and settling instead on austere admonishment. She didn't need to say anything; they knew what they were doing wrong, but curiosity and anxiety had outweighed the threat of reprimand. As children are. 

Instead, she motioned them over next to her. They paused for a moment, but rushed to her side, jostling and pushing for room. Small as they were, they found vantage through the railing, peering through like railings with wide eyes.

Rather than being dormant and quiet, the village was bursting with life. Streetlamps were lit with soft flames, and the scents of baking and spices wafted through the air, warming the atmosphere. Branches and leaves were wound around roof edges and railings, dotted along with baubles or candles. Houses were overflowing with light, and the hum of conversation and laughter draped around them. But most of all, the town was brimming with emotion, but not oppressively; it was welcoming, affectionate, ready to blanket whoever walked through with security and comfort. 

The lights of the town glimmered in the children's eyes as they gaped at it. Color and light were a rarity—seeing it all so concentrated was nothing short of a marvel to them. The girl wanted to speak, but the boy was the one who did. "What is it?"

The Witch regarded him for a moment, half considering whether or not to scold him for making noise. They both knew there was no point though, so she sighed. "It's the festival of the savior," she said, looking away. "It's the day the people thank the hero Elcrest for their lives."

The boy nodded firmly at her words, imitating the way he'd seen countless drones do so. "They're all distracted," he said, straightening his posture. "Their guards are lowered. Shouldn't we attack?" The girl perked up at the last word, and looked expectantly up at her commander.

The Witch's eyes narrowed, then clouded. She was always distant, as she must be, but there was just the tiniest break in her face. She shook it away. "No," she said, frowning at the boy. "This—This is what we're fighting for. We're not attacking tonight." Her gaze locked with the boy, authoritarian and severe. He held it for a moment, then nodded. The girl deflated, returning her eyes to the village, flicking about to whatever shiny treasure captured her liking. 

The Witch regarded the children for a moment longer, and resigned herself with another sigh. "...You may observe the customs, so long as you stay out of sight. I can't attend to you right now; keep each other in line." And with a glow of purple and a hum, she was gone. 

Both children relaxed their stances when she vanished, and all the words they had restrained bubbled out. The boy flopped onto the ground, palms splayed out behind him, and the girl sat in front of the rail, sticking her legs out between them and leaning her head forward. "...Have you ever seen this before Dante?" she said, swinging her legs back and forth.

"The festival? Yeah. Wasn't as big of a deal in my village though." He stretched his legs forward and looked up at the sky. "But everyone still looked forward to it. I know lots of kids got gifts and stuff. They were always waving 'em around, this time of year." He sat straighter, folding his hands into his lap. "I never really did much of that. I guess I knew it was coming, but...I didn't really think about it."

The girl nodded, and cast her gaze on a nearby house. The windows were open, and mirthful shadows danced along the walls. "We didn't have it in my village." She tucked her head down, making herself as small as possible. "I never got to be a part of...that."

Dante sneered, waving dismissively at the houses in the square. "Neither did I. Goodwill is only for certain people, I guess."

She acknowledged him with a slight mumble, but remained curled up, catatonic. The warmth of the home only barely touched her, just enough to make the bitter cold sting harder. 

The boy winced and rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting about in thought. The cold bit him too, so he pushed his hands into his pockets—and he touched something soft, and forgotten. The memory of the discarded little project came flooding back, but in an altogether unwelcome way. He dug it out anyway. 

The little purple toy was just as ugly and mangled as he remembered. It was supposed to be a rabbit, but all that made it even vaguely recall the animals were the two ungainly strips of fabric that trailed off its head. Three buttons were sewn in for the face; one for each eye, and a nose. They were all different sizes and colors, scrounged from trash and found lying in the dirt. The stitched holding them in were precarious, threatening to pop them off at any moment. A mouth had been cut lopsidedly into the head with a crude stroke of a dagger, and loose strings still hung from when he tried to sew it back together. The body and limbs—if you could call the stubby logs hanging off the main section "limbs"—were repeatedly patched and stitched together where the threadbare fabric had given out. Lumpy fluff stuck out of gashes and flaws all over the doll; truly, it was a loathsome little thing. But he held it out it to her anyway.

"...Here," Dante grumbled, cradling the toy gently in spite of himself. "I...tried to make it a while back. It didn't go well, so I gave up. You can have it if you want it. It's ugly though, so it's okay if you don't."

The girl peeked out of her huddle, then jumped to her feet. Her eyes glittered like the lights in the village. Brighter, even. "It's a bunny!" She looked up at Dante, hands outstretched. "He's mine?"

"Uh, yeah," he said, almost feeling pity for how genuinely excited she seemed. "H-Happy Savior's."

"Happy Savior's!" she repeated, and looked at his homely creation like it was the most beautiful thing in the world. "I've never had one of these before." She circled one of the button eyes with her fingertip. "He's cute!"

Dante scoffed. "Don't get so wound up. It's just—just a stupid rabbit. I didn't even make it right."

"He's not a stupid rabbit!" she said, stomping her foot. "He's...um...Dekurin."

"Weird name. I don't know if I can let you call him that when I made him."

"Oops, too late! Mine now. So it's Dekurin!" The girl stuck her tongue out and grinned toothily. She hopped forward and wrapped him into a hug, clinging the doll against his back. "Thank you."

Dante froze for a moment, but let himself relax and returned the hug with one arm. Her head was at the perfect height for it, so he gently patted her, ruffling her hair. "You're welcome, Dorothy." 

They stayed there for a bit, girl, boy, and rabbit, not really feeling the cold—but it caught up with them eventually. They slipped away from the village, with all of its light and color, resigned to the way of life apart from it. They weren't suited to such things; little patchwork rabbits matched them much better.


End file.
